


The Puppet

by Malfoyv



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Depression, Malfoy Family, POV Draco Malfoy, Slytherin, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:32:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malfoyv/pseuds/Malfoyv
Summary: His mind begged him to run, run and keep running til his lungs gave out. But his body felt like a weight it could not lift. Rooted in the chair his heart pounded, Voldemort’s words constricting in his chest. How was he supposed to plot such an impossible task? To kill a man, no. To kill Dumbledore.





	The Puppet

“It’s okay” Myrtle cooed, “We’re alone you can talk to me.” She floated down to sit next to the pale boy slumped against the cold white tiles. His late night visits to the first floor bathroom had increased over the last month, as did his desire to disappear. His tears fell and Draco had no fight left in him to regain his composure. They were very much alone but he’d rather be struck with a hex than to talk to Moaning Myrtle, though she may be the only soul in Hogwarts who wanted to do so. Talking only made his situation more unbearably real. Myrtles hand reached out to touch Dracos knee, the phantom gesture running a sharp shiver down his spine. The pain bringing him back to his thoughts. He had no choice, like a puppet on strings he would follow his orders, the consequences too great to risk. Dracos blurred vision spilled into the memory he desperately tried to forget.  

Stepping through to the dining room which had once framed Dracos favorite view of the lush green garden beyond the manor, was now drowned out with dark heavy floor curtains. Cracks of light spilled down the sides illuminating the dust in the air. A dozen cloaked masses now sat at his once welocming dining table. His breath caught in the back of his throat as he inhaled before pacing to the empty seat at the table. His mother’s hand gripped his knee as he sat and glanced down at the figures now removing their masks. Keeping his gaze low, Draco turned to the head of the table. 

“Young Master Malfoy,” the chilled voice prickled at the skin of his neck, “I am sure I need not explain the dire importance of our current situation. Your eavesdropping from behind closed doors should have filled you in quite nicely.” Tensing every muscle Draco begged his body to remain still, the grip on his leg tightened keeping him grounded. Locking his focus on the small cracks of the table the figure to his left seemed to almost lounge in his chair, though his eyes searched every inch of his face hungry for attention. 

“You shall kill Him Draco,” Voldemort’s voice hung in the air, a few murmurs came from the lower end of the table but were quickly silenced by a sickening laugh that pierced the room. With the flick of a wrist Draco’s gaze was snapped straight in The Dark Lords direction; a smile cracked across the ghastly face in front of him, “and should the Malfoys yet again fail, I won’t be so forgiving.” The smile widened a fraction as Dracos nerves faltered. “I place their lives into your hands Draco.” Silence fell and time slowed to an agonizing pace.

Across from him, Draco saw the moment panic strike his fathers face. Lucius’ tired eyes flashed wide and his mother’s vice grip dug deep into his leg. It felt like hours that he had been sat there, those words ringing in his head like a thumping headache. The weight of the situation drenched Draco in a cold sweat. Blood surged through his ears and his nails dug deep red patterns into his palms. His mind begged him to run, run and keep running til his lungs gave out. But his body felt like a weight it could not lift. Rooted in the chair his heart pounded, Voldemort’s words constricting in his chest. How was he supposed to plot such an impossible task? To kill a man, no. To kill Dumbledore.

His vision blurred and his eyes stung, the memory faded into his silent tears. Myrtle now peered over the top of his knees with a look of pity he always despised. Pushing himself up off the bathroom floor he leaned over the sink and swallowed the wave of nausea, scowling at the disheveled mess that reflected back at him. Myrtle sulked about being ignored and swooped into a near by cubicle as he quickly regained his composure. Swiping the remaining tears away and running a hand through his limp hair, with what little energy he had Draco did his best to fix his appearance. Once he deemed himself adequate enough he swung the bathroom door open and silently made his way along the dimly lit corridors back to the common room.


End file.
